“Seven percent, maybe eight . . . Enough to make Hamzah respectable, not enough to make a difference. It’s in all the records.”
“And you wanted more?”
“More?” St. Cloud spread his hands and smiled mockingly, although Raf found it impossible to tell if he was the person being mocked or if the man was mocking himself. “Moi?”
“Does Hamzah know it was you?”
“Me what . . . ? Even if that were true,” said St. Cloud, taking a glass from Raf’s hand and finishing it, “which I obviously deny, he can’t touch me any more than you can. My advice is take his cash and leave it at that.”
“Discussing money?” said Ernst von Bismarck as he joined their small group. The German ambassador didn’t know whether to look shocked or intrigued.
“Ashraf Bey’s just reward,” St. Cloud said smoothly. “It’s bound to be vast. Which I gather is just as well . . .”
“These Arabs.” The Graf’s voice was serious. “Debts matter to them. You must let him give you something. I’m told you didn’t when you saved Miss Zara from that mad assassin . . .”
St. Cloud laughed. “Which mad assassin would that be?” he asked. “The mad Thiergarten one?”
The Graf paid no attention. “People tell me Hamzah Effendi was very hurt . . .”
“Give me something?”
Ernst von Bismarck looked surprised. “What do you think this is about?” His gaze took in Zara, Hamzah and the Khedive, Senator Liz, Captain Bruford from the SS Jannah and General Koenig Pasha . . .
“Such a miraculous recovery,” said the Marquis. “For which we must all be heartily grateful, no doubt.”
“And then there are those two journalists,” added von Bismarck. He ran together their names and stations, as if they were part of the same thing. “Both of whom are desperate to interview you . . .”
“About the city’s miraculous recovery, no doubt.” St. Cloud shrugged. “It’s amazing how fast Iskandryia managed to get back on its feet. One’s almost tempted to suggest things were not quite as bad as the world believed.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Believe me,” said Raf. “Those EMP bombs inflicted enormous damage.”
“Oh I’m sure that’s true. I can even believe that all the cars and trams were affected and all the phone lines. But just imagine, every single electricity substation, every gas-processing plant, the entire IOL network and all of the power supplies to all of the local newsfeeds, even the pumps to the main water supply . . . Everything, suddenly dead, as if someone somewhere threw a big switch.”
“He knows,” said the fox.
“The e-bombs were real,” Raf reiterated.
“And as I’ve already said,” repeated St. Cloud, “I don’t doubt that for a minute.” He twirled his empty champagne flute until it hung upside down. At which point a waiter hastily appeared, bearing a silver tray full of freshly filled glasses.
“You do realize, don’t you,” said von Bismarck, “that the reappearance of Abad leaves us with a major problem . . .”
“I rather imagined,” Raf said, “that you’d all fight over ownership while pretending to be friends . . .” Reaching for a passing glass of champagne, he casually killed it and took another. “Isn’t that what diplomacy is about?”
“So young,” said St. Cloud, “and yet so cynical.”
The Marquis turned his attention to the German ambassador. “And where Abad is concerned there is no us. Paris wasn’t part of making the hideous thing, or subverting it come to that.”
“Soon,” said Raf, “you’ll be telling me you didn’t know Abad still existed . . . Or where he was hidden.”
“We didn’t.” St. Cloud shrugged. “At least not officially, and that’s what counts. Mind you,” he added, “we certainly intend to be part of trying the monster.”
“Assuming it can be tried,” said a voice. But the fox’s comment was lost, because somewhere across the other side of the Long Drawing Room Hamzah nodded to Avatar, who hammered a whisky glass down on a wooden overmantel.
“Your Highness, gentlemen, ladies . . .” Hamzah should have got an Excellencies in there after Highness, but having had a speech carefully prepared by Olga he’d decided at the last minute to do without notes.
He knew exactly what he wanted to say.
This was payback time, in its way. He had a roomful of notables, most of whom didn’t want to be there but knew better than to refuse. Twenty-seven-point-three percent of the Midas Refinery belonged to him, which was why St. Cloud, its urbane public face, joked uneasily at the edge of a group that included Ashraf Bey and that young German.
St. Mark’s relied on Hamzah’s generosity for its recent scholarships. He could see the headmaster across the room, a drab Christian Brother wrapped in dirt-coloured tweeds. The city’s famous library still needed new glass, somewhat urgently after the recent bouts of rain. Madame Syria was smiling fondly at Hani, but she’d been less happy earlier, when she’d been talking to Zara about the library’s need to find finance for repairs.
The two thickset men in suits, standing over by the door, headed up the Kharmous and El Anfushi crime families and were both doing their uncertain best to look happy at finding themselves in the same room as Mushin Bey, Minister of Police.
“Your Highness, Excellencies, ladies and gentlemen . . .” Hamzah draped one arm heavily around Avatar’s narrow shoulders. “I don’t think any of you have been formally introduced to my son Kamil.”
“Avatar,” insisted Avatar, but his heart wasn’t really in it.
On the other side of the boy stood Madame Rahina, her face dark as thunder, her arms heavy with new and unwanted gold bracelets. And it was obvious that Hamzah was as oblivious to his wife’s smouldering anger as he was to the tears running down his own broad cheeks.
“Very clever.” Senator Liz handed Raf a fresh glass of champagne and instantly a waiter materialized to spirit away his dirty glass, depositing it on a passing silver salver. Both waiter and salver-carrier were models of professionalism, right down to the shoulder-holstered guns under their left arms. Hamzah might be everyone’s favourite son but he was still taking no chances.
“What was clever?” Raf asked.
“Taking the Colonel into protective custody.” The Senator’s smile was tight. “Can a synthetic intelligence be tried for crimes against humanity?” She shrugged. “Thanks to you, I think we’re probably about to find out.”
“Only if it’s first possible for software to be extradited . . .” Raf said lightly.
The woman opened her mouth and forgot to close it.
“And that’s always assuming the Khedive accepts the extradition papers. Which he probably won’t.”
“What?”
“Colonel Abad has asked for political asylum.”
“On what grounds?”
“That it won’t get a fair trial elsewhere.”
“Then try the thing in El Iskandryia,” said the Senator. “I don’t see that being a problem. If you can stand having the reptiles crawl all over you again.” She glanced at C3N’s Nick Richardson, accidentally caught his eye and immediately smiled.
“I hear you’re going to put Colonel Abad on trial,” St. Cloud said, about five minutes later, when he tracked Raf down to a window seat overlooking the grey waters of the Mediterranean. “If Paris can be of any help . . .”
Raf shook his head. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh yes,” said Raf, taking another sip from one glass too many. “As sure as anything.”